


Afterimage

by lq_traintracks (lumosed_quill)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Community: bbtp_challenge, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, F/M, Fingerfucking, Fucked Up Relationship, Massage, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 22:07:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20478221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumosed_quill/pseuds/lq_traintracks
Summary: Ron comes home drunk (again); Ginny takes care of him. Again.





	Afterimage

**Author's Note:**

> So I was reading Donna Tartt’s ‘The Secret History’ recently, and I got inspired by certain aspects. (Also DT, in general, is a fucking writing genius, and I admire the crap out of everything she does, particularly her ability to unapologetically write flawed characters living in grey areas and being completely unreliable as narrators while running off with my fucking heart in their filthy hands.) Ahem. Anyway. This is a fucked-up and complicated relationship; mind the warnings. I want to thank my ever-brilliant beta, Shelly, for looking this over, drooling on it, and helping me tighten it! <333 Also, woooooo, Bring Back the Porn! I love this fest! Thank you so very much to Shelly and Torino for running it yet again! It’s as important as ever. <3 Alright, enough yammering; enjoy!

“Ginny, honey. Where are you?”

Ron’s words are slurred. Muggle bourbon, she’d bet. The front door closes too hard, and he swears softly under his breath. Scuffle of shoes on the foyer floor. Fumbling with the coat rack. 

She leans back in the kitchen chair and waits, legs crossed, hand resting on the eggshell linen tablecloth near her teacup. On the outside, she must appear completely still, serene even, a marble statue, Aphrodite. It’s too much to hope she’s Artemis. She hasn’t felt that strong in a while.

“Ginevra.” His hand trailing down the hallway wall, over their childhood portraits, leaning the frames until they hang precariously, their happy smiles tilting, like reflections in a funhouse.

It’s been a year and a half that they’ve had this flat together. Two years since Hermione left him. Two hundred and twelve bottles. Three big fights. Several smaller. Countless passive exchanges. And then this. What’s about to happen. 

“Here,” she calls, voice wavering. She’s not the marble statue. Inside she’s red wine perpetually spilling across a pale carpet. She’s a bird flying into clean window glass. She’s chemistry, neurons, a physical response she can only temper, not stop.

He scuffs into the room behind her. It’s on his skin, permeating his clothes, the drink. His breath will be sweet. “There you are, my love,” he says. His voice is low now, gentle. She holds her breath as he approaches. His hands drop onto her shoulders. The terry-cloth of her robe warms under his palms. He squeezes, and the V at her neck widens slightly.

“Chamomile,” he says, noticing the cooling tea in front of her. “Trouble sleeping again?”

It’s two a.m. You could say that. But she hasn’t yet tried. She’s waited up for him, making sure he comes home in one piece. She’s the one who called the Knight Bus, so it would show up at the Leaky and he wouldn’t try to Apparate in his condition.

Suddenly, his lips are at her left ear. “D’you need help relaxing?” His hands squeeze her shoulders, big thumbs pressing in. She closes her eyes, allowing a soft sigh to escape.

Ron massages her neck and shoulders. It’s slow. Like a drip of syrup running down the outside of a bottle. He breathes in her hair, still damp at the ends from her bath, pulled up in a messy twist off her neck. He noses behind her ear and makes a sound in his throat, an appreciative hum. She tilts her head away, exposing the curling tendrils that, when he presses his face there and exhales, make her shiver.

He straightens a bit, massaging in earnest. With every movement of his hands on her, the robe she’s wearing shifts. The neckline opens, revealing her collar bones and the freckles along them… the bare plain of her sternum. Her breath has changed now, and as her robe slowly parts, she feels it happen, can smell it even. She swallows and keeps her legs tight together.

She hears Ron breathing too, more excited as the moment gets closer. He ceases his massage and takes the robe in his hands. He loiters, his pace almost imperceptible, though she can feel the cotton moving over her nipples. He pulls the robe open, little by little, _making_ her feel it, she realises. Her breath comes hard, so that once he’s ready, once he slides it open so far her breasts come out, her inhale pushes them forward still more. As he reveals them, she shudders, a deep thing that initiates from the slick dark of her. The air strokes her tits, Ron’s hands heavy on her shoulders. He lets her feel her own complicity in the moment, the humiliation of inaction. The longer he waits, the more her surrender transcends itself, turning to the impetus to beg.

“Spread your legs,” he says, his mouth at her ear again. She feels his liquored breath on her nipples, even though he’s made no move on them. Him simply seeing them, looking at them, staring, is enough.

Ginny uncrosses her legs, her hand coming off the table to grip the edge of the chair instead. Her knees sneak apart. She winces when… god…

Ron chuckles. “It’s a beautiful sound, that.” Then, “A little more.”

She opens her thighs until she’s sure he can see the shadow of her cunt. The fact that her robe is still tied is a mere technicality.

He leans over her now, but still he doesn’t touch. “Tell me you want it.”

“Fuck off.” None of her other brothers makes her feel this way, makes her do this.

His small, deep chuckle bathes her breasts in warmth. He says so much without a word: No one makes Ginny do a bloody thing.

She won’t say it though. She has no way to voice what’s become as much a need for her as it ever was for him. She parts her legs still more.

He doesn’t make her wait long, sinking a hand between her thighs and pushing two fingers into her. She gasps, trembling, holding her legs open so he can finger-fuck her. It’s too languorous, and she curses how drunk he is, that he can’t just power in and out until she’s coming, can’t just make it quick. She holds herself still for it (except for the ripples running through her, about which she can do nothing; it’s like Imperio), and they listen to the sound together. Her chest flushes hot, skin fevered with mortification and arousal.

“Gin,” he whispers, fingers sunk into her and fucking.

She keens, wanting, now, to thrust. She lolls back in the chair, tits lifted like a slag for it. For him. For this awful thing the two of them find themselves succumbing to with the frequency of a heat cycle. He pumps his fingers in and out, his breath close and wet on her nipple—and then his tongue. Dear _fuck_, her brother’s tongue flicking and lapping at her tit. She’s going to come all over his hand. She’s crying a little; she presses into his mouth, striving for it.

And suddenly, she’s off the chair, her body thrown over the table, the linen askew, cup clattering to the floor. He tosses her robe up over her back. His hand shoves between her legs again, but this time it’s utilitarian. He swipes some of her copious wet up over her arsehole. It’s not going to be the first time. It’s always this, or her mouth, or her hand fast on him as he groans, his spend striking her breasts. Sometimes he eats out her pussy while he tosses off. But a lot of the time, maybe most, it’s this. He likes to come up her arse.

His dick finds her, and he rubs the tip there, an ‘Oh god,’ rushing out of him. He braces with a hand on her shoulder and slowly sheathes his cock inside her. 

She arches, breathless, mouth open, her hair unraveling and falling around her shoulders, her face. She wants him to grab it, wrap it around his fist while he rides her. She’s so wet it’s trickling down her thighs. 

He fucks her arse, and she whines at the shameful burn. Her pussy’s so empty, and even that is arousing, the need she feels pulsing there, unmet. He slams into her, grunting. Her body jostles on the table, toes barely skimming linoleum now. She lifts up a little, throws him a veiled look over her shoulder. She knows he knows what she wants. He does it, reaching under her and palming her tits; he squeezes them hard and then gets to plucking her nipples without care while he goes fast and ruthless in her arsehole.

It doesn’t take much more than that. Just her name from his filthy mouth one more time, like he loves her, _loves_ her like this. “Oh Ginny…” that whine before he throbs and floods her, pushing all the way in and out on lusty grunts and groans, watching himself, watching even as he pulls out, the string of come that clings and then drips from her.

He finger-fucks her pussy again, three fingers this time, pulling on her aching tit without rhythm. She comes so loudly, it’s almost animal, arching her back while his fingers work quickly in and out. “Damn,” he breathes. How faithfully he watches it happen. She never, ever says his name.

Ginny wilts onto the table, and he pulls his fingers out. He bends to retrieve her teacup; he has to swipe for it twice. Then he sets it on the table, above her head. 

“‘m going to bed,” he slurs, the exhaustion now that he’s come probably overwhelming.

He trudges into their living room as Ginny straightens, righting her robe and re-tying it. She leaves her hair down, running a calming hand through it and drawing it over one shoulder. Her legs are wobbly, she’s been so well fucked.

Ron doesn’t make it to his bedroom; she finds him, instead, fallen face-first onto the sofa, one leg hanging off, still in his boots. He’s fast asleep. She kneels, sighing, to remove one boot and then the other, lining them up under the end table. She pulls a blanket from the back of the sofa and covers him with it, leaning down and only hesitating a moment before she lays a soft, lingering kiss at his temple. She smooths his hair and he snuffles in his sleep, smacking his lips.

Her footsteps down the hall make no noise. She stops outside their opposing doors. She looks at his, feels the ache of her orgasm echoing through her pelvis. She could take to his bed, be waiting there for him to have another go in the dark of night. If he ever even wakes up. He likely won’t. 

As she opens her own door, she thinks for the fifteenth time that she needs to charm the hinges not to squeak so badly. It’s something she can so easily fix. 

Lying on her bed, still wrapped in her robe, she smells of him: drink and sex and a bit of Christmas: fir tree and sugary biscuits. Ron always smells like Christmas to her. 

The dawn slowly greys the room lighter, and Ginny turns her back on the first wash of golden sun into the room, a brightness that stings even once she closes her eyes, the afterimage against the darks of her lids almost human-shaped, and slow to fade.


End file.
